


flowers in your hair (are like the ink that stains my skin)

by orphan_account



Series: Flowers and Tattoos [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Flowerchild!Harry, M/M, Punk!Louis, Sex, idk man i tried, really short ficlet thing, this was totally inspired by those edits of flowerchild harry and punk louis going around on tumblr, woot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>flowercrown!Harry and punk!Louis</p>
            </blockquote>





	flowers in your hair (are like the ink that stains my skin)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [flores en tu cabello (son como la tinta que mancha mi piel)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/744741) by [misschevalier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misschevalier/pseuds/misschevalier)



> TRANSLATION INTO POLISH CAN BE FOUND [HERE](cheerfultown.tumblr.com/post/61015766929/flowers-in-your-hair-are-like-the-ing-that-stains-my)
> 
> idk man i tried okay please comment i need to know how bad i did on this
> 
> EDIT: I went back and changed some things, added some stuff or whatever. Comment please? Idk man lol thanks for reading :)
> 
> EDIT: Over 6000 hits?!?! Omg thanks guys! xx
> 
> ANOTHER EDIT: okay so there's fanart now and i just. go look at it and bask in its awesome [go](http://pygmylouis.tumblr.com/post/46348598934/you-can-be-my-other-king-if-youd-like-x)  
> YET ANOTHER EDIT: there's graphics made by the ever lovely [speaksarcastically](http://speaksarcastically.tumblr.com) that can be found [here](http://larrythestars.tumblr.com/post/51272001710/graphics-by-speaksarcastically-based-on-the-fic)

The thing with Harry is that he’s so fucking _innocent_ it makes people want to ruin him. It makes _Louis_ want to ruin him. Harry has an obsession with making flowers into crowns (all in different colors, different shades of pink and purple and red and blue and violet and— _god_ he even has this crown of white flowers that make him look so _fuckable_ ), and he wears them solely because he likes them, only because he likes the way they fit around his head like a proper crown, makes him think that he’s finally king of something, even if it’s only a kingdom made of vines and trees and flowers (and he doesn’t like to talk about it, but Louis knows that whenever Harry looks out the large floor-to-ceiling window in his (their) flat for too long, he’s thinking about how quickly his kingdom is rotting, turning into nothing, turning into crushed rose petals).

Harry likes to think of himself as a flower child—a flower _king._

 (Louis thinks it’s endearing. His friends think Harry’s gone round the bend.)

But Harry— _Harry_ is just so fucking _easy_ to love, is the thing. He loves everyone and everything equally, doesn’t give a fuck what anyone looks like, didn’t even bat an eyelash when Louis—with his red bright red hair, his skin littered with dark ink in the shape of skulls and crosses and curse words, with pieces of metal in his tongue, his lips, his eyebrows— _Louis_ with his eyes outlined in black kohl, eyes blue enough to rival the sky, told him that he really, _really_ liked his flowers. He didn’t even spare a moment to think Louis might have been messing around with him (Louis wasn’t, though, he actually really did like the flowers). He just turned to Louis, eyes bright and happy, smiling like he’d won something important, said thank you like it was a shower of adoration, and promptly introduced himself (“ _Hi! I’m Harry. What’s your name?” “Louis. I’m Louis.” “Well, Louis. Care to wear this crown I just finished making? You can be my other king, if you’d like.” “But what would we be kings of, Harry?” “Everything, Lou. Everything.”)_

When Harry loves, it’s terrifying and absolute—it wraps around you like a fog.

And when Louis loves, it’s possessive and demanding—it swallows you whole.

(But when they both love, it’s unlike anything they’ve ever felt before, like stars shooting across the empty sky, like fire spreading through a forest, like rain hitting the pavement for the first time in years. It’s like falling in love with a hurricane when the sun is shining and there’s not a cloud in sight. When they love, it’s cataclysmically wonderful, it’s dazzling and ferocious and new.)

(When they love, it’s for each other.)

+

The first time they fuck, it’s in Harry’s bed, beneath the white twinkling Christmas lights Harry hung on his bedframe (“ _It helps me see at night, Lou. Don’t laugh! It makes me feel less alone,” he says, his curls falling into his eyes, the flower crown he wears hanging dangerously low on the side of his head. He bites his lip waiting for Louis to say something and Louis just. Louis looks at Harry like he’s something different, something brilliant, and he can’t help the giant grin that splits his face. “Fuck, Haz, you’re so adorable. C’mere,” he whispers. He fixes the flower crown so that it isn’t drooping anymore, fixes Harry’s curls so he can see into his eyes, rubs his thumb across Harry’s lower lip, and presses chapped lips that hold all his secrets lightly to Harry’s until Harry’s hands are dangerously low on Louis’ hips, murmuring something about “yes, please.”)_

The sheets they lie on are white, crisp beneath their moving bodies, cooling Louis’ heated skin. The sheets cling to his body like Harry’s hands cling to his shoulders, his nails digging into his flesh, leaving behind constellations on Louis’ back, inking the word ‘ _Harry’_ onto his skin, among stars and half-moons and bruises and bite-marks. Harry writhes on his lap, his head thrown back, his neck exposed, whimpering Louis’ name (and _fuck_ if Louis only ever wants Harry to say his name again. He wants to make Harry say his name exactly like that, over and over again, molding his lips around it and making it sound like something revered, something beautiful, something worth it), and Louis presses his lips to the pale column of flesh offered to him, skimming his teeth across it, enjoying the way that Harry gasps for air. (And Louis knows it’s a really weird kink, but he loves it when Harry wears the flower crown. He loves the way that it falls slowly off his curls every time Louis thrusts too hard, loves the way the blood-red petals slowly fall onto the crisp white sheets, loves the way the crown slowly falls apart as Harry does.)

He rolls over so that his body covers Harry’s, his lips still at Harry’s neck, leaving behind a bright red patch of skin that won’t fade for at least a week (and he hopes that when everyone sees it, they’ll know it was Louis, know that Harry belongs to him), and Harry is writhing beneath him, making all these sinful noises that Louis wants to capture and replay over and over again. Harry is throwing his head from side to side on the pillow, arching his back every time Louis angles himself just right, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to get words to form, but his thoughts escape in the form of moaning, instead. He throws a hand out, palm flat against the headboard, trying to get his body closer to Louis’, trying to get Louis to go faster, go deeper—

“Fuck, Hazza, you’re so beautiful like this—beneath me, so hot. You’re so beautiful,” Louis says breathlessly, watching Harry’s lips, obscenely red, his eyes wide, like he can’t believe that this is real, that this is him and Louis and they’re here, they’re alive (and Louis can relate, because _fuck_ nothing seems more surreal than this moment, nothing feels better than Harry wrapped around him).

“Lou—Lou I—fuck—more? More, please, more—“

And Louis is so _gone_ for this boy, so ready to give up everything for him, if only to keep his hands trailing up Harry’s legs like this forever, smooth skin beneath hands that have done too many wrongs, wronged too many innocents. He slides his hands up the backs of Harry’s thighs until they reach behind Harry’s knees, breathing out a short, “Ready for this, Haz?” He pushes down until Harry’s almost bent in half, his ankles by Louis’ head, breathing harshly. Louis grinds down slowly, grinning wickedly before fucking Harry in earnest.

And Harry is letting all these noises fall from his lips unbidden each time Louis thrusts hard enough to make the headboard hit the wall; he lets slip tiny little noises that sound so loud in the silence, rebounding off the walls and playing inside their heads like an orchestra. Harry is so lost he doesn’t realize it’s him who’s making the noises, but when he does, he flushes and quickly moves a hand to cover his mouth, but Louis stops him, manages to grunt, “Don’t stop—wanna hear you,” and entwines their fingers instead, his ink stained fingers contrasting brilliantly with Harry’s clean and flawless ones.

Sometimes Louis thinks Harry’s hands are guns, the way they taste like metal in his mouth, the way they’re so clean cut, so mechanical in a way that Louis’ never been. He thinks Harry’s hands are guns because they have a terrifying elegance to them, sinful in the way they tear holes in Louis’ sanity, every caress leaving bullets beneath his skin that he prays Harry will never find. Harry’s hands are guns, the way he pulls the trigger and shoots a hole through Louis’ heart.

“Fuck, Lou. I just—fuck. Love you. Love you so much—nngh,” Harry’s eyes widen as he comes, as if it’s unexpected, breaths coming out broken, his body twitching every time Louis moves, and yet he grabs onto Louis and says, “Use me until you come, too, okay?”

And fuck if Louis doesn’t groan out loud at that. He bites Harry’s neck, thrusts three more times and comes, his heart feeling like it’s bursting out of his chest, bleeding from the bullet wounds that Harry’s left there. The perspiration on his back is already cooling, the come on Harry’s belly starting to feel disgusting as it dries, sticking their bodies together (but Louis doesn’t really mind). He rolls to the side, landing next to Harry, both of them lying, staring at the twinkling Christmas lights above them. He looks over at Harry and watches shadows dance across his face, his smile bright in the dim lighting.

The flower crown is in pieces by Harry’s head, petals tangled in the sheets around them, but Harry looks like he could care less, giggling as he reaches out to grab at Louis’ hand.

Louis looks at Harry like he’s something wonderful, something new, and he feels another bullet tear through his chest.

(Louis grabs on tight to Harry and doesn’t let the bullets show beneath his skin.)

+

 

**Author's Note:**

> [here](http://larrythestars.com) is my tumblr  
> [here](http://twitter.com/bravery_has_won)is my twitter
> 
> please comment! love you all .x


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